Finally I said, “Well? I’m up. What you got?”
“This is the autopsy report on Carolyn Bishop,” said Dennis. He handed me the paperwork. “She was twenty-seven, lived over in Manomet. She was a paralegal in town.
“How’d—”
“Wait,” Dennis interrupted. “This is the important part. She had an abortion recently. Probably within the past month.”
He waited for me to react. I took a sip of coffee and turned this around in my mind.
“Okaaay. I guess that explains the blood on the patch. But how does that tie to John Billington?”
“Some people think abortion is murder, Sam. Maybe these women are being punished, like John Billington, for murder. We found the paperwork in her desk; we know what clinic she used. We’re heading over there now to see if we can find anything. See who works there. See if Fuller or Cummins were ever patients. Then we’ll talk to the families; try to find out if either of them ever had an abortion.”
“The ME didn’t put anything about abortion in his reports on Fuller or Cummins,” I said. I had those reports memorized.
“No, but the doc says it wouldn’t be something they would see unless it happened within the past few weeks. The body would be back to normal by about a month afterwards.”
“So the killer’s going to hang every woman in Plymouth who’s had an abortion?” I said incredulously. “That’s crazy. It’s impossible. And their families may not know if they did have an abortion. That’s not something everyone shares with Mom and Dad.”
Dennis shook his head and sighed. “It’s all we’ve got right now.”
I thought about the religious angle. “If you’re right, it still brings us back to Charles Smit—”
“Not necessarily, Sam. A lot of religious folks are opposed to abortion. Remember Brookline?” I’d been a kid at the time, but I remembered. A religious, anti-abortion extremist had shot and killed the receptionists at two different clinics on Beacon Street.
“Yeah, but Dennis, most pro-lifers aren’t crazy enough to kill over it. And what about Fuller’s patch? And Cummins’s brand. If the blood on Bishop’s patch means abortion, or murder, then the other two must stand for different crimes. Or sins. Smit is an extremist; just yesterday he was preaching about how women should make lots of babies. He told me my duty is to stay home and serve my husband. Not to have a career. Maybe that’s why Anna Fuller was targeted.”
We were all quiet for a minute.
“Sheet,” said Turk. “Ma woman don stay home an serve me. They any sisters in that church?”
I glared at him.
He shrugged. “Just axin.’”
I knew for a fact that Turk had a lovely, intelligent girlfriend; an impressive woman who was doing her surgical residency. But his sarcastic humor was ill-timed.
“It fits,” I insisted. I looked at Milo. “Back me up here, would you?” I was getting frustrated; it seemed so obvious to me. I looked back at Dennis. “Smit, or his so-called church, has got to be in the middle of this.”
“Sam, we told you, Smit’s clean. He—”
“Then someone else in that church. One of his followers has gone off the deep end. Something. There has to be a link.”
Finally, Milo spoke up. “They’re definitely an extreme group. If it’s not Smit, it could be someone else in the church.”
Thank you. I turned back to Dennis. “It makes sense. It fits.”
He shook his head. “Smit has followers all over the country, and it could be anyone within a hundred mile radius, for all we know at this point,” said Dennis, snapping his briefcase closed. “Bastard’s careful too. We got one rogue hair off Carolyn Bishop during the autopsy. That’s it, from all three vics, and it probably came from someone she worked with.” He stared down at his scuffed loafers for a moment. “You two keep at it. Until we know for sure what the connection between these three women is, we haven’t got a prayer of catching this guy. And he’s due to strike again. Tonight.” He pulled his briefcase off the bar, turned and headed for the door.
Turk set his coffee mug in the sink and looked at me. “Sorry,” he said. “I say some dumbass shit sometimes. I don’t mean it.”
I smiled half-heartedly and rubbed his arm. “I know, Turk. And I get bitchy sometimes.” I shrugged. “It happens.” It’s just how we deal with crisis. Milo shuts down, Turk spews stupid ghetto shit and I turn into a raving bitch. Dennis just gets more intense, which is saying something.
“Happens when there’s a murderin’ muthah fuckah in our town,” said Turk. “We gonna nail his ass, Sam.”
I looked up into Turk’s eyes, so serious for once.
“Damn straight, Turk.”
He nodded, turned and followed Dennis out the door.
“We need to find Zeke. If we can find a Zeke linked to Carolyn Bishop, he’s our guy. We need that video and we need a Sight Ministries membership list.” I downshifted and slowed for a group of seniors shuffling across the road with their tote bags and chairs. After a chilly weekend, the early October air had grown warm again and the retirees were headed for one last day on the beach with their newspapers and paperbacks and thermoses of coffee. Or martinis, for all I knew.
I studied them as they passed. Their faces were light; their demeanor, carefree. They had done their time. Made their money, paid for their homes, raised their kids. Their skin was saggy and their hair—what there was of it—was white. But they looked happy. Relaxed. I wondered if I’d ever reach a point in life where I didn’t worry over when the next payday would come. Over how to pay the property taxes. I wondered how saggy my skin would be by the time I got there. Assuming I did get there. Lost in my private pity party, it took a moment for Milo’s next words to register.
“You need to get into the Mayflower Society database, Sam. See if Carolyn Bishop was also a descendent. See if any of them were descended from John Billington,” Milo said quietly. “Or all of them.”
I looked over at him. Milo was in the passenger seat; Pepper was standing on Milo’s thigh with his front paws on the window, watching the parade of seniors. A couple of them saw Pepper and smiled and pointed. Dogs rode shotgun all the time, but a cat staring out a car window was a novelty.
“Milo, that’s it!”
“Maybe, maybe not. There are thirty million Americans descended from the Pilgrims. That’s nearly ten percent of the entire U.S. And it doesn’t explain the badges or the brand.”
Milo smiled and gave the laughing seniors a salute. Pepper was staring down suspiciously at a scruffy little grey dog trotting alongside the group.
“I guess it doesn’t really tie in with Dennis’ abortion theory. Or Charles Smit,” I said and sighed audibly. “Or maybe it does. I just don’t know anymore.”
There were simply too many loose ends in this case. So much more to coax out of the Ether—from the white Honda to John Clarkson and Liz Smit’s communications, to finding Reggie Cummins on a dating site. We needed to figure out the AD and the triangle. I wanted to hack into local abortion clinics now too, to see if Anna or Reggie showed up in any of the records. But we’d decided to attend Anna Fuller’s funeral this afternoon in Boston, which meant I only had a couple of hours before I needed to shower and dress. Impatiently, I watched as the last of the blue hairs entered the crosswalk. I was decades away from leading their leisurely life.
I was cranky. I reached into the waxy white bag beside me, pulled out two donut holes and shoved them into my mouth. We’d been to Dunkin’ Donuts. After Dennis left, I threw a mini-tantrum when Milo wouldn’t let me take Pepper for our morning ride. He’d finally acquiesced, but insisted on coming along. He was still in bodyguard mode. Then, all Milo ordered was an egg white flatbread, which made me even crankier. I grabbed another Munchkin. He would probably whip up another disgusting smoothie when we got home. There was something called kale in my refrigerator. What the hell was kale anyway? It looked like spinach on steroids.
Finally, I accelerated on down Taylor Avenue; the se
niors were now holding up progress on the stairs down to the beach. A minute later we were approaching my house and I gasped. Mrs. Trimble was standing at the end of my driveway wielding an aluminum baseball bat.
Chapter 23
“He just left, Sam! The white Honda guy. I chased him off your deck.” Mrs. Trimble was panting and her stance was downright scary. The bat was resting on her shoulder but she looked ready to knock one out of the park. I stared at her in shock.
“Don’t just stand there, Sam, go get ‘im!” she screeched. Milo, Pepper and I had all jumped out of the car when I pulled up to the curb.
“Take Pepper inside, Milo. I’ll be right back.” I dove back into the car and took off before he could stop me.
I floored it around the corner at the end of Taylor Ave, praying there weren’t any octogenarians or mothers with strollers in the crossing ahead. I flew past the post office and the general store and rounded the next bend. I caught a glimpse of brake lights just before they disappeared, about a quarter mile in front of me. I didn’t even have my backpack, meaning I didn’t have my gun, but I wanted that plate number, pedestrians be damned. I was pushing sixty mph now.
A few beachgoers on the sidewalk yelled at me as I flew by, but I kept it floored. The bicycle cops stopped covering the beach in September; as long as I didn’t hit someone, it would be fine. I continued up the hill, rapidly scanning both in front of me as well as passing driveways. I hadn’t seen a white car yet. As the road leveled off, I pulled myself up by the steering wheel, praying for the Honda to be there ahead of me. It wasn’t. I slowed a little, but by now I could see nearly all the way to the light at 3-A.
When I got to the light, I cut a slow turn in the ice cream shop parking lot and studied the cars. Then I crossed the road and checked out 7-11 and Walgreens. Nothing. It was like the guy had an invisibility cloak. Maybe he was Batman.
Finally, I headed slowly back down White Horse Road. I turned onto each side street and trolled the cul-de-sacs as I worked my way back down the hill. Only one street off White Horse Road continued out of the neighborhood; apparently, White Honda Dude had taken it. I spent another twenty minutes riding through the quiet back streets in search of the elusive Honda, but it was no good. He’d gotten away again.
Dejected, I pulled back onto White Horse Road and headed down toward Taylor Ave. As I was turning onto my street, my phone rang. Milo.
“Thank God.” Milo exhaled loudly. “What happened? Where are you?”
“I’m almost there, Milo. I’ll see you in a minute.” I hung up and threw the phone into the passenger seat. Who was I kidding? I sucked at this. Maybe I should consider beauty school. But I sucked at beauty, too.
Milo and Mrs. Trimble were sitting on the back deck. Milo stood when I opened the door. I shook my head at him and sank into a deck chair.
Out on the beach, happy people were tossing Frisbees. Collecting seashells. Seeing them made me even more depressed. Tears welled in my eyes.
Milo sat back down and said, “Tell her what you got, Mrs. Trimble.”
The old woman looked at me. “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get more, Sam, but I did see part of the license plate before he got away,” she said. “I was wearing my glasses this time.”
I sat up. “You did? What was it? Was it a Massachusetts plate?”
“Yes, Massachusetts. First three were 828. I think. Or maybe it was 82B. But then, I guess it could have been B28. But that’s what I saw, hopefully that helps.” Mrs. Trimble was remarkably calm for a ninety year-old who’d just chased someone with a baseball bat.
“That definitely helps,” I said. I jumped up and ran inside for a notebook and pen. I snagged the Dunkin’ bag off the counter and rushed back outside. Quickly, I unwrapped my sausage, egg and cheese bagel and shoved a quarter of it in my mouth. Chewing hard, I wrote down the various combinations Mrs. Trimble had given me. Now I had him. That mother fucking, cat freezing bastard was mine.
I swallowed and said, “Okay, start at the beginning for me. Tell me exactly what you saw. Everything that happened. Every detail.”
An hour later I was standing wrapped in a towel in front of my closet. It was pushing noon and Anna Fuller’s funeral was at one thirty. I figured we needed an hour to get to Boston and another half hour to find the cemetery. Driving in Boston was always a crap shoot.
I looked at my Dad’s funeral dress. It was a very classy, simple black dress and I had a great pair of black heels that I could just about walk in to wear with it. But the thought of putting it on again bothered me a little. It brought back memories I didn’t want to revisit. (“Get over it Sam, I’m still with you in spirit,” said Dad.)
“Yeah,” I whispered, “and you’re still a pain in the ass.” I smiled as a few tears spilled down my cheeks. He was right, of course. It was just a dress. I pulled it out of the closet, scavenged in my drawer for pantyhose, and got dressed.
A few minutes later I had myself pulled together. I’d even broken out the makeup bag and added some smoky grey eyeliner, a hint of blush and lipstick to go with my standard mascara. The face in the mirror looked a little strange to me; I vaguely recognized her from my NSA days. I couldn’t decide if she was cute or clownish. (“Cute,” said Dad). He was probably biased, but I went with it. I hobbled down the stairs.
Milo was working on his laptop on the couch. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit with a lighter grey shirt and a maroon and black paisley tie. His hair was combed and his chin was freshly shaved. He looked amazing. I stood in the doorway staring at him. When he turned and looked up at me, that familiar flush worked its way up my neck.
“What?” I finally said.
“You look nice.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled and went to my desk. “You, too.” I grabbed my backpack. I didn’t own a cute little bag to go with the dress, but I figured I could leave the backpack in the car at the cemetery. “You ready?”
“Yeah. But I was thinking. Maybe we should take Pepper somewhere in case White Honda Dude comes back when we’re not here.”
I looked at Pepper. He was lounging in the middle bunk of his tree, his paw casually slung over the side. He stared at me with his placid yellow eyes.
“Excellent idea, Robin. But where?”
“We could take him to my house, but I’m not sure we have time before the funeral.”
I looked through the window at Mrs. Trimble’s house. “We can take him to your place later this evening. I’ll call Mrs. Trimble for now.” She was turning out to be a valuable team member after all.
A few minutes later we stood waiting for Mrs. Trimble to answer her door. I was holding Pepper away from my dress and he was squirming. Milo carried a bowl of kibble and an improvised litter box. I knew there was a reason I kept that aluminum roasting pan after Thanksgiving three years ago.
Mrs. Trimble opened the door and squinted at the cat through her coke bottle lenses. She didn’t look thrilled.
“I, uh, I really appreciate you letting me leave him here,” I said, following her inside. “We’ll pick him up around four or four-thirty.” I set Pepper down. He strolled over to the kitchen cabinets and worked his paw behind the door. Pepper loves to spend time in the cabinets; sometimes he sleeps curled up in my frying pan.
In about five seconds, he had a cabinet door open and was halfway in. Mrs. Trimble grabbed him and, holding him far away from her chest, carried him out to the living room. There she had a plastic toddler corral set up, probably something she kept for her grandchildren (great-grandchildren?). She put Pepper inside the pen, which was about three feet high. He looked up at her quizzically, then gracefully jumped out and proceeded to use the leather couch as a scratching post.
“No, Pepper!” I cried. I crouched down and carefully removed his claws from the leather. I picked him up and turned back to Mrs. Trimble. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” I took in her expensive furniture.
“Do you have an office or a guest bedroom?” asked Milo. “We can just shut him in; it
’s only for a few hours.”
She nodded. “Follow me.”
We went through the dining room and came to a closed door. She opened it and the pungent scent of cigars wafted out. Mr. Trimble was lying in a recliner in a blue velour track suit. He was puffing on a stogie and watching a soap opera on television. The Young and the Restless. I knew because Victor looked the same as he did twenty years ago, when I was ten and tuned in all summer long.
Mr. Trimble took the cigar out of his mouth and looked us over.
“Roger, Sam’s cat is visiting for the afternoon. I want him to stay in here with you,” said Mrs. Trimble.
Milo set the roasting pan litter box in the corner and the kibble a few feet away. I put Pepper down. He stood motionless for a moment, then jumped up on Mr. Trimble and kneaded his substantial belly. Pepper can spot a soft belly a mile away. Mr. Trimble stared down at him for a few seconds and then tentatively scratched Pepper’s chin with his free hand. The cigar was still spewing toxins from his other hand but I figured now would be a bad time to mention the dangers of second-hand smoke.
“Are you sure this is all right?” I asked.
“What’s his name?” asked Mr. Trimble.
“Pepper,” I said.
“Well, as long as Pepper doesn’t mind watching my stories, he can stay. But I’m in charge of the remote,” he said to the cat. “Understood?” Pepper continued to knead. Soon, I knew from personal experience, Pepper would probably start drooling. At least Mr. Trimble didn’t have boobs. It really hurts when Pepper kneads your boobs.
Mr. Trimble looked up at us. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “Now scram, I’m trying to find out whether or not Phyllis is going to leave Nick for Ronan.” Mrs. Trimble rolled her eyes and we filed out of the den, leaving Mr. Trimble and Pepper to their soaps.
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 13